Love, Letters, and a Lack of Galoshes
by Anachronistic Anglophile
Summary: POST DH/EWE Severus Snape escapes death by an enchantment that takes him back to 1848, and he starts a new life. Hermione Granger discovers a magic writing desk, the sole link to his former existence. They write to each other, healing the ravages of war.
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: I am not Just Kidding when I say that I am not J.K. (R.)  
_

_Thanks very much to __**excessivelyperky**__ for beta-ing this work, listening to my rather crazy ideas, catching my silly mistakes, and inspiring new trains of thought. Much love to you!_

**Love, Letters, and a Lack of Galoshes: A Chance for Redemption in Writing.**

"_Why is a raven like a writing desk?" –Lewis Carroll_

"_Because Poe wrote on both."—Sam Lloyd_

Chapter 1

_What a way to start a story_, Hermione thought, examining the first paragraph of her memoir. It was perfectly atrocious. Tennyson, though an excellent writer, was not at all a good guide for forming one's own prosaic voice.

Yet another wadded ball of paper was shoved to the corner of her desk, where it toppled off and rolled across the floor. It startled Crookshanks enough for him to open one eye, hiss in a demonstration of his alertness, and curl up tighter on the hooked rug.

"Perhaps I shouldn't be doing this at all," she mused, not noticing how Crooks avoided the paper ball. It was not the first time she had thought so that evening.

A nagging feeling that she was neglecting some major issues plagued her, and she felt horribly guilty and depressed. She was further aggravated by the intense pain that followed every movement she made; the concentrated pain-alleviating potions that Poppy Pomfrey had been sending her since her torture at Malfoy Manor had run out, and Hermione had to wait another day for refills. Until then, she had to suffer, and she preferred to suffer alone. She could brew her own, but it would take energy she did not have at the moment, though Molly had given her something to take the edge off.

As she was acutely aware, locking herself up in Ginny's room at the Burrow a week after the Battle of Hogwarts was not helping her solve any of the grievances that plagued her. Falling into a familiar habit, Hermione began to catalog every possible hindrance.

_Thesis: I'm sitting up here 'writing my memoirs' because…_

_a) I feel guilty about kissing Ron when I have absolutely no interest in him _

This was, by far, the clearest reason, and the one that made her cringe in embarrassment the most. She did not love Ron, though for a long time she fancied that she did, but she hated to break his heart and disappoint his family. That was one major reason that she was hiding from the problem in his sister's bedroom. Life was so much more complicated when love (or, in her case, lack thereof) entered the equation.

_b) I feel guilty about my parents, especially because I'm not interested in going and fixing up their memories._

Like the first, this motive was one she had realized very quickly. She knew that she could not cope very well when had been in the wrong. However, Wendell and Monica Wilkins would be all right even if she left them for a year or longer; she had left them as a newly-wed couple just starting out with a shiny new dentistry firm in Australia. Hermione had bought the building, put up a name-plate, and paid the first month's rent, leaving them to fill out the details. Knowing her parents, it was probably a flourishing practice already. Going and interrupting them in their new life would probably be quite a disappointment to them; the thought did strike her that they might be happier without a daughter. In any case, she did not want to have to deal with the whole scenario before she completely recovered from her injuries. They were in no danger anymore. Life had to be taken one step at a time, and she no longer needed to live the life of a fugitive, putting her own needs on hold.

_c) I'm dead tired, and in bloody physical pain, I don't want to start studying for N.E.W.T.s just yet. (Prof. Trelawney would prophesy that the world is ending.)_

Hermione Granger, not eager to run to the library? Such an idea would have been unthinkable in the past, but this was the present. She had learned over the past year that some things mattered more than the cumulative sum of one's education. Life was meant to be lived, not spent in the dark.

_d) I'm scared to go out into the world with my newfound experience._

She had to challenge the old perception of herself; everyone knew her as the annoying know-it-all. She would have to face the reputation she had, even though she had dramatically changed her own views. No longer was she the trivial, naïve, too-complex Granger waving her hand in the air. Now she had acquired purpose to her responsibility, real bitterness to her misanthropy, justification for her need to understand. Life was no longer a game to be played for the fun of it; there were real consequences to every action, and death was the inevitable Game Over.

_e) I feel guilty being happy that Bellatrix Lestrange is dead._

Every time she thought of it, she felt both giddy and sick. To wish death upon another human being was immoral and therefore distasteful to Hermione, but she could not help feeling a rush of satisfaction when she thought of the gorgon-like features of the decapitated Death Eater. Hermione wished that _she_ had killed the vile woman. The Death Eater who had so mercilessly tortured her—and _liked it—_could not die a death that was long or painful enough. It made her feel good to know that Molly Weasley had exacted revenge on her behalf. Life was better without Bellatrix Lestrange in the world, but Hermione knew that someone out there would think the same thing of her if _she _had fallen instead.

There were, however, many people for whom she felt that she had not done enough. What if she had died, and was remembered as nothing more than a shrinking violet that had spent all her available days immersed in studies? Had she ever enjoyed her life? She wondered about that more and more. Would she have been satisfied with how she had lived her life, if she had died that fateful night? The more she thought about it, the more she thought that she ought to have died; so many more worthy ones, more admired ones, more loving ones, had fallen in her stead.

This was, she thought as she scratched it onto the parchment before her, her worst sin.

_f) I could have done more to save them: _

She listed their names carefully.

_-Fred Weasley_

_-Remus Lupin_

_-Nymphadora 'Tonks' Lupin, _

_-Ted Tonks_

_-Argus Filch_

_-Colin Creevy_

_-Grody Boot_

_-Busby Heron_

_-Laura Fielding_

_-Severus Snape_

The Potions Master was no afterthought, despite the fact that he followed several lower-year students whose names Hermione knew only in passing. She just was not sure whether or not she _ought _to feel guilty about having watched him die. After all, it was not as though anyone knew he had been on the Order's side the whole time.

However, whenever she posed this argument to herself, whenever she told herself that she could not have done anything, she immediately recognized such to be self-deception.

Indeed, it was _his_ death that she felt worst about, mostly because he was the only one she could have done something about. Since the battle, she had endured many nightmares, most of them involving herself at the end of Bellatrix's wand or Professor Snape bleeding to death on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, and many of them incorporating both memories. When she woke up—shaken to consciousness by Ginny or clawed by her own nails—she usually lay with her eyes open for hours afterwards, thinking feverishly of what she ought to have done to prevent both situations.

The first one was simple--she should not have let Harry say the name of Voldemort aloud. However, Harry was used to not listening to her. Therefore, the second occupied her mind the most. As a result of many nightmares and much resulting insomnia, she had come up with a thousand different ways to save the crotchety Potions Master. She might have called Fawkes for some Phoenix Tears, she might have attempted to stop the blood loss with standard wound-closing spells, she might have had Harry try the Sectumsempra cure. Hell, she might have tried a bezoar from her bag! Even that would have been better than standing, pathetically petrified, unable to do anything besides summon a glass for the dying man's memories.

Thinking of excuses for herself no longer placated her. So what if she never caught a single one of the hints that testified to Snape's innocence?

Namely, that Snape prevented the Carrows from doing anything to stop the new D.A.—which, being him, he must have known about—and then sending Luna, Neville, and Ginny on a merciful detention with Hagrid instead of a cruel Death-Eater-Worthy punishment. There were others: the fact that Dumbledore's will was so relevant to their search that he must have revised it very soon before his death, which indicated that he had anticipated it, the Sword of Gryffindor's appearance in the Forest of Dean, which MUST have been Snape's doing,…and oh, there were so many others.

Even if she had not been able to put it all together, she still _ought_ to have tried to save him, even if he nothing more than a nasty Death Eater, especially after the Dark Lord had marked him as an enemy. If she were truly smart, she would have realized that Snape could have become an immediate (and powerful) ally, if she had shown him mercy when his supposed Master showed none.

Besides all of this, thinking about Snape's death brought her to recognize the value of others' lives, all too late.

Harry did not seem to understand like she did; he had almost died himself, and though he understood the blessing of his own life, he did not completely have a grasp of the fact that so many had fallen. On top of it, Harry was more than a tad egocentric; he got used to being the Boy Who Lived, thanks to Dumbledore's unfailing encouragement. Along with that, the only ones whom he had truly lost in the battle was Lupin and Tonks, though of course he mourned Fred with the entire Weasley clan. As Harry told her, there were many dead on both sides who, under different circumstances, could as easily have been their allies as their enemies. He considered himself lucky to be alive, lucky that Ginny was alive, and lucky his friends were alive. There was no room for emotion beyond these, save relief, and excitement at being Teddy Lupin's godfather. He kept bringing up Sirius—whom Hermione sensed that he grieved for more seriously than for anyone who had recently died—and said he wanted to be 'just like old Sirius for little Teddy'. Not wanting to rain on his parade, Hermione bit back the observations that Sirius was in prison half his life, gave Harry badly biased advice for the duration of their very short relationship, and then on top of all that needlessly _died _just before Harry needed him most.

Besides, Harry's main preoccupation, one week after the battle, was to sing Dumbledore's praises to the multitudes. This disgusted Hermione—Dumbledore was quite knowingly, as Harry quoted Snape, raising him 'like a pig to slaughter'—but the realization seemingly had no effect on the Boy-Who-No-Longer-Was-A-Horocrux. He and his hero-persona had to combat the _nefarious _suggestions, which were prompted by Rita Skeeter's article, about the old wizard's manipulative inter-personal relations. While Harry still lionized the late Professor Snape, the issue of re-paving the dead man's reputation had dropped off his radar, particularly after Kingsley Shacklebolt hinted that perhaps it would be better to wait to clear the name of the dead man. The new Minister of Magic's reasoning was that people would be loathe to honor the memory of any Death Eater, reformed or not. Harry, for better or worse, agreed with this assessment, and therefore the prickly hero remained unsung; the Boy-Who-Lived-_Twice! _could not bear more than one dead man's cross at a time.

When it came to having a sense of loss, Hermione could not compare herself to Ron, who joined the lamentations of his entire family for Fred. Since the battle, he had done his fair share of moping around, fiddling idly with knickknacks, and trying to cheer George up, but his brother's death wore heavily on him. Even Percy's return to the family, much less Hermione's half-hearted attempts at affection, could not bring him much joy. Quite the opposite reaction, actually, since George, Ginny, and Molly in particular could not understand why the prodigal son who had forfeited the nest had lived, while the loyal son had to be the one to die. Arthur, Charlie, and Bill were the few who were just grateful to have Percy back, while Ron periodically flip-flopped between their side and that of George and the females, though he inclined mostly to following his mother's example.

Conversely, when it came to Snape, Ron could not care less. He was still completely biased against the dead Potions Professor, making the valid point that even if the spy was not ever a Death Eater, he would still be a slimy, nasty git. So what if she did not even try to save Snape from a death inflicted by the Dark Lord. It was not, in Ron's opinion, her place to do so, and he suggested that she leave the subject alone. Such a declaration only validated her past observation that he did have an emotional range the size of a teaspoon.

Hermione, however, could not help but think and feel, and therefore she commonly combined the two.

While considering her own pain, she thought about the sad case of Marietta Edgecombe. The girl who had been the 'sneak' in fifth year had, in the eyes of many, made up for her transgression with her valor in the battle. Ginny told Hermione how the Ravenclaw had pleaded to let her back in the D.A. when Neville and Luna started it again, and they did so with limitations. (She was only allowed to know where meetings were, for instance; fellow D.A. members had to guide her while blindfolded.) No one was disappointed with her, and she had taken down two Death Eaters in conjunction with her boyfriend, Terry Boot. It went to show, Hermione decided, that one could change, given the chance.

Could Snape have changed, if he had lived? She supposed it was possible, which was just one more reason to berate herself. Ron would say, she knew, that Snape would never have changed, and most people would tend to agree. However, when she thought about Neville and Luna giving Marietta one chance to prove herself, it saddened her that she could not have done the same for Snape.

Hermione snorted, letting abashed tears run down her face. To hell with typecasting her scenario; survivor's guilt or not, she was responsible for withholding a life-preserver from a drowning man.

_I'm a monstrous imbecile, _she told herself fervently, _A monstrous imbecile who could not give a dying man the benefit of a doubt. _

She never would have guessed that the chance to redeem herself was on its way, in the form of a charmed letter that dangled under the nose of one very cross Hogwarts librarian.

_. . . x . . . X . . . x . . ._


	2. Chapter 2

_DISCLAIMER: I am not Just Kidding when I say that I am not J.K. (R.)  
_

_Thanks very much to __**excessivelyperky**__ for beta-ing this work, adding depth to the characters, and generally expanding my perception of the HP universe. Much love to you!_

**Love, Letters, and a Lack of Galoshes: A Chance for Redemption in Writing**

"_Why is a raven like a writing desk?" –Lewis Carroll_

_"__Because there is a B in both and an N in neither"--Aldous Huxley_

Chapter 2

The next day, Hermione regained her composure and managed to go downstairs so she could use the floo.

"Hullo, mate, stop bothering me and Ginny and go after _your_ significant other!" Harry poked at Ron in a jocular manner, observing her descent down the stairs.

Ron was only too eager to please. His eyes lit up like a hous elf who had been called to serve as he lazily budged up to meet her.

"Morning, 'Mione," he said, a nervous edge coming to his voice, and Hermione noticed with chagrin that his ears were already flushing red—as they had every time he talked to her since the Battle of Hogwarts. She flashed him a tired but courageous smile.

"Good morning to you too, Ronald, Harry, Ginny," she said, carelessly diverting attention from what could easily become a tête-à-tête. Ignoring Ron's miffed expression, she took a few careful steps towards the kitchen. "I'll be going to Hogwarts to pick up my potions. Someone let Molly know I won't be gone too long."

"We will, Hermione," Ginny said drowsily, from where her head was buried in Harry's chest.

As she left Ron standing there, obviously with words on his tongue, Hermione had the distinct impression that her days of reclusiveness had taken a toll on her relationship with the boys.

_You need to have it out with Ron_, she told herself firmly, _once you're back and feeling tops._

As she thought about that, she stepped into the floo, muttering aloud, "Hogwarts Infirmary."

Three seconds later, she emerged on the immaculate threshold of the Hospital Wing and brushed the soot off of the worn jeans and loose cardigan she wore in favor of robes. She was not surprised to see no one around at the moment, so headed towards the direction of Madame Pomfrey's office.

"But _Poppy!_ I _love him!_"

This shrill exclamation made Hermione nearly jump out of her skin. It took her a moment to recognize the voice of Madame Pince, the librarian, particularly because the blatant declaration of love was followed by a heavy series of sobs.

"Oh, Irma, Irma, it's going to be all right, don't fret, please? He wouldn't have said such things, if he knew the truth."

At least Healer Pomfrey was there. Hermione quickly decided that it would be better that she announced her presence to those inside the office; she had no intentions of listening to the rather surprising lamentations of the Hogwarts librarian. Hermione felt that she had enough on her plate without adding extra drama.

"Madame Pomfrey?" she called, and was rewarded by the quick action of the nurse.

"Why, gracious, Irma, it's nearly eight. Give me a moment, love, and let me take care of Miss Granger, all right? Come in, Miss Granger!"

Hermione entered the office somewhat stiffly, not knowing how Madame Pince would react to her entrance. "Good morning to you both," she said, slightly formal in tone.

Pomfrey smiled warmly and inclined her head, but Pince refused to even look at the young woman. Turning her chair, Madame Pomfrey rose and went to her potions shelves to retrieve what Hermione needed, while Madame Pince put down her teacup and an unfolded letter on Pomfrey's desk.

"All right," Pince sniffed, continuing their conversation, "I'm sorry about this. I should just be happy he's alive, shouldn't I?"

"There's a practical Ravenclaw," Madame Pomfrey approved, still rummaging. "And how are you this morning, Miss Granger?"

Somewhat petulant, Hermione grimaced. "If it's all the same to you, I'm feeling rather shoddy." Her own thoughts were still on her frustrations with Ron, and she was in too much in emotional and physical pain to bother with niceties. "Sorry," she added as Madame Pince's critical (albeit a bit wet) eyes came upon her.

"Well," Pince said, sharply rising, her voice a bit tight, "I daresay I need to get a hobby. He's right about that, you know."

This was obviously a continuation of their previous conversation. Hermione wondered as to whom this 'he' was. Someone they thought had died, it was evident, but beyond the fact that he had told Madame Pince to get herself something to do outside of the library, she had nothing to work with.

"Perhaps, Irma," Madame Pomfrey said, in a dismissive tone that she seemed to have borrowed from McGonagall.

Madame Pince fidgeted, looking at Hermione. "Poppy," she said, carefully, "Would you…would you deal with the reply? I don't think my dignity could bear it."

"Certainly, just leave it on the desk," Pomfrey replied, and then hinted more strongly, "I'll talk to you later, Irma."

The librarian bowed her head. "Of course. Thank you, Poppy, and I'll see you at dinner."

With that, she shuffled out of the office, her dainty library slippers noiseless on the infirmary's tiled floor.

"Don't mind Irma, Miss Granger," Madame Pomfrey said with a sigh, as she selected bottles from her cabinets, unfazed. "She's had a bit of a shock, and you've always been a little bit of a thorn in her side."

"Oh," Hermione replied, not too nonplussed. It had always aggravated her that one of the few authority figures who disliked her at Hogwarts was the _librarian _of all people, but she was unsurprised at Pince's reserved and rather rude actions. _Ah, well, I don't care much any more. I'm not coming back to study at Hogwarts again, just for N.E.W.T.s and that's it. _

The healer and the student shared a brief silence while Pomfrey went through Hermione's prescriptions, checking bottles and concentrations against what she was ordered to take.

"Have you been out of the antidepressant, too?" she asked Hermione pointedly. "Your last refill was in June of last year, and I doubt that you've managed to make the supply stretch, even though I got you enough to last six months, what with you hiding heaven knows where."

Sitting down in Pince's abandoned chair, Hermione sadly lamented her case. She had been on antidepressant potions, on and off, for some time since the return of Voldemort. She had a lot of fears in general—of not being good enough in her classes, of not being liked because she was Muggle-born, of being uglier than all the other girls, of losing the only boy who fancied her at all—but when she learned that her life was threatened by some pure-blooded maniac, she had an explosive anxiety attack in front of McGonagall, who suggested her case to Pomfrey. With the help of the medications, and reserving her tears to when she was completely alone, she managed to keep her composure in front of the boys so that she could be a grounded pillar for them even if she could not for herself.

The medication really did help her keep her worst fears and such bottled, but when she went off the stuff abruptly, all the emotion swelled to the surface, and she had to have a good long cry. She had run out of the last drop sometime when in hiding in the Forest of Dean with Harry, and had her big out-flux of emotion then, but she was painfully aware that doing without the medication for months had been a detriment to her stability.

"Yes, I suppose I have been," she remarked, in a comment meant to be sarcastic at first, but she toned the bitterness down just a little with the rational realization that Pomfrey did not deserve such treatment.

The healer was pointedly objective in her tone when she asked, "Do you still need it?"

Hermione sighed. "I think so. I've not been very…stable emotionally, and I…I did something really very foolish last week that I think was because I wasn't in control of myself."

"What was that?" Pomfrey sounded concerned, but not upset. It was hard to get the phlegmatic Hufflepuff ruffled.

Feeling her throat constrict, Hermione swallowed. "I kissed a boy I'm not in love with."

"Oh, piffle. That's nothing."

"Not when it's a Weasley boy. Then it's practically an engagement."

Pomfrey's big brown eyes settled on Hermione. "You poor dear," she said softly. "You want me to have a word with Molly?"

"Oh!" _It would be nice to get _that _cleared up so easily, _Hermione thought, but then she realized that she would probably lose Ron's respect if she didn't tell him herself. "Well, I hadn't considered how to tackle that problem, exactly," she said, feeling immature and timid. "You see, I haven't told Ron yet that I don't …fancy him."

"Well, once you've told him, if you have any trouble with Molly, let me have a word with her. I've a way with mothers, you know, particularly the kind that treats their boys like they were girls. For gracious' sake!" she added, clearly commenting on the Weasley boys' upbringing. "I've had Miss Ginevra up here for contraception potions lor' knows how many times, and yet I've never heard once of a Weasley boy shagging the daylights out of some girl in a broom closet. For crying out loud. Pansies, all of 'em."

She went back to checking potions, and Hermione watched, feeling sick to her stomach as she realized that Ginny was by no means the blooming virgin she put on airs about around Harry, and she felt a little bit betrayed at the information. Her nausea was further worsened by the fact that the basket intended for her was becoming more and more full.

"Are there other manifestations of your emotions, however? I trust your assessment that you don't feel stable, emotionally, particularly so soon after your experience with the Cruciatus curse, but I must have further details to write in your report."

Hermione shrugged, feeling like a sinner at confessional. "My temper is worse than it's ever been, and I can't say I've ever had the best of tempers before. I've spent most of the last week in seclusion because since the Final Battle I can't stop lashing out at everyone."

Pomfrey bit her lip, obviously thinking about something else when she absently asked, "Were you _told _to stay away from everyone at The Burrow or was it your choice?"

"Oh, my choice, of course," Hermione assured her, feeling bitter about the fact that her friends had left her so alone, "but nobody seemed to care. And it made me sad." Her throat was tighter, and Hermione closed her eyes to hide her imminent tears.

"Anything else?"

Hermione bit her tongue. "I've…had bad dreams. About the Battle."

"Is it just the blood and gore, or do you see your memories?"

"Oh, memories," whispered Hermione, clenching her fists and twisting the hem of her robe in one hand.

"You can tell me about them, if you like," Pomfrey said. Hermione heard the healer sitting down at her desk to sort through the bottles.

_Swish thump. Swish thump. _Hermione heard bottles being placed on the desk, her sense of hearing accentuated with the darkness of her closed eyes.

"I see Bellatrix Black doing…what she did to me, I guess. I see people I know and love, dying all around me. Fred. Professor Lupin. Tonks. They look at me and I feel like I could have _done _something to help them. They're accusing me. Every night, accusing me, telling me how much I've failed them. And my parents."

Her tears were flowing down her face, and she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder to wipe them away, not opening her eyes still.

"I see my parents more often than others, which is strange considering how little I've seen of them since I came to the world of magic. Just summers. But they look so disappointed. And I hate the fact that they're so disappointed in me."

"Mhm." Pomfrey sounded neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. Sensing that she could go on with confidence, Hermione continued.

"But then I see…I see Professor Snape attacked by Nagini. He doesn't even look at me. He just raises his wand hand, then drops it, and Nagini attacks him, and he falls to the ground, and his blood spurts everywhere, all over my shoes. Sometimes Nagini is wearing glasses, and then little Scabbers comes out of nowhere and starts biting Snape too, and then I decide to yank out his jugular vein with my teeth like I was some sort of werewolf. And then…"

She breathed deeply. Pomfrey, from what she could tell via her hearing, was sitting stock still.

"…then, always, I look at my hands, and they're covered with blood. His blood. I know it's his blood, even when I haven't even touched him in the dream. And sometimes, when he's clearly dead, suddenly I hear Ron cursing—as though he were there—and then Professor Snape rises again like an inferi, and he floats towards me, and…strangles me."

"What do you think it all means?" Pomfrey's voice was soft, as though lamenting that one so young should have to dream of such things.

"I'm no bloody good at divination, but it occurs to me that I'm combining memories of the last time I was in the Shrieking Shack with Professor Snape and Harry—when we knocked out the Professor because we thought he was the enemy, and then when we saw him die."

At this, Hermione lost all sense of reason. In a rambling manner, she began to mutter, "I as good as killed him. All I did was stand there, and I didn't help him, and he just died. I don't even remember if I screamed when it really happened or not, or if I tried to scream and nothing came out, but it's very clear that I'm the one who never tried, and just let him bleed to death there on the floor. I can't bear…it."

Her composure thoroughly demolished, and she settled back into the chair, which (being magically enchanted) hugged her close like a mother would do, as she sobbed. Pomfrey remained silent in the duration, not moving, not saying anything.

A few minutes later, Hermione disentangled herself from the chair's arms and opened her eyes. Pomfrey had put a bottle in front of her, with a teaspoon, and she looked very concerned.

"You might as well take two tablespoons of the Mental Frost Melter, along with a few licks of rock salt for good measure," Pomfrey suggested kindly. "I'll supply you with Dreamless Sleep, of course, for a duration of two months."

With a nod, Hermione complied, removing the wax from the antidepressant bottle and pouring some for herself in the medication spoon. The warm, Christmasy taste slid down her throat, lifting her spirits as quickly as a Yule log could light a cold dark room. Hermione felt immediately less sad, and smiled.

"On that note, while I'm giving you orders," Pomfrey added weightily, "You might want to tell Professor Snape thanks-a-lot for all of these medications you're taking. Not like many others ever showed him an ounce of gratitude," she added rather petulantly under her breath.

Hermione nodded, frowning. "How do you suggest I do that?" she asked.

"Just take a look at that letter that Irma left."

She had been eyeing it since she had come in the door. Hermione, given permission by Pomfrey, saw no need to protest that it _was _Madame Pince's letter.

This is what it read.

_Madame Pince:_

_I trust that the contents of this letter may be shocking to you. I beg of you, please control yourself. It would never do for this information to be broadcast to the populace on account of your lack of tact. Too often I hear your banshee's voice shrieking at hapless students for dropping books, even down in my dungeons. _

_However, since I know that you are a librarian with a real passion for your trade, you might prove useful to me. In the event of a Final Battle held at Hogwarts, I am fairly certain that you, of all people, will avoid death. You're not stupid enough to leap into battle like a bloody Gryffindor, you're not going to get killed by tending the wounded like a Hufflepuff, and you're certainly not going to choose the wrong side with the majority of Slytherins. If you do any of these, I assure you that you are a fool, but that is far from the point of this letter. I do not think you will be listed when the death tolls are taken, mostly because the only thing you give a damn about is your books. I think I'm safe to say that all YOU will do in the event of a great fight is barricade yourself in the library, armed but only dangerous to those who threaten your sacred tomes. I believe your chances of survival are the highest of any adult in the school, and that's why I'm sending this to you._

_If I have not succeeded in insulting you yet, then I wish to call your attention to today's date (and by that I mean the date you are reading this). It is most likely seven days after the Battle at Hogwarts (which I know to be inevitable) has taken place, and it is probably assumed that I am dead, even though my body has not been found. This, as you may presume by the receipt of this letter, is WRONG, providence allowing (God forgive my arrogance)._

_Some time ago, I discovered an enchantment that, at the death of the victim, is capable of sending the soul to a past period in history to start a new life. You probably have not heard of it, as it is rather obscure, but it is known informally as the Romulus/Julius Enchantment, or formally as the 'Ego peragro vicis in meus somes' spell. (Shortened: Peragro Vicis.) Don't ask what I was searching for when I found it. I made some modifications that allowed me to manipulate the spell by translating its magic into a potion, and to better estimate my time of arrival. _

_So, if the fates are treating me right, if I'm due another chance to play on the world's stage, then I'm currently in 1848. While I am missing and presumed dead to your time, I have been resurrected in the past. You will find details about me if I do anything interesting; my adopted name is to be Severus Alighieri Dawkins_

_I have two requests for you upon your receipt of this, and then I ask no more. First, I would like an account—from you or another reputable source, NOT the Daily Prophet—of the Final Battle. Not detailed, but I should like to know who died, and who won, and what that fool boy Harry Potter said and did (since he was certain to steal the show before he died) and particularly how my reputation stands. _

_In case it stands badly, I must decree this: YES I have been Dumbledore's spy for half my life, and once I changed sides I never crossed that particular line again. Why did I do so? If you don't already know, then say so in your account of the battle. I might—or might not—choose to enlighten you._

_Second, there is a small bag with coins in my rooms (not in the dungeons, but in the Headmaster's Quarters). If the rooms have not been ransacked for whatever reason, it shall come to you if you say the password '_Many a wild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped.' (1)_ I need not remind you what lore THAT preludes, Pince. Just mind to have your hand up to catch the bag, lest you get a nasty blow to the face. __What will you do with these, the letter and the bag, to convey them to me? A small antique wooden writing desk, about two and a half feet long and one and a half feet wide, and about eight inches tall at its highest point is also in my room. It has no legs; it is meant to be taken, I am told, to write with while traveling in a carriage. (Not that I have any experience in testing its efficiency. Loyd at Borgin and Burke's claims it will work well, however.) It is currently likely sitting on the steamer chest in my closet. If it is not on top, it is likely inside the chest. I do have another writing desk that is very plain, and made of teak; that is NOT the desk in question. The writing desk that I speak of has some floral decoration carved in its surface. __There is a twin of this writing desk that I have access to in 1848. I have spelled the one in your time to be able to transfer items that you put in it to my copy in my time. If, for some reason you cannot find the desk, or it is burnt or otherwise destroyed, then I suppose I shall know simply by the fact that nothing materializes in my copy within the week. That is your time allowance, Pince. One week from the day you receive this letter to accomplish this task, and then you will be rid of me. A bag of gold and a letter of information; that is my final request of your time._

_I suppose you may be wondering, if I anticipated my own death in the battle, then why did I simply not make some potions to prevent it? Simply stated: I don't have a single bloody thing to look forward to in this world. Surviving my death in your time would suit no purpose. I hardly think that people will look kindly at a Death Eater who survives the war (if we win), reformed, spy, or otherwise. If I were Lucius Malfoy—rich, in love, with a family—I might well bear it. _

_But I have endured no small number of hardships in this world. My parents were far from perfect—my mother was a stupid woman who married my Muggle father without a care beyond her own lust, abandoning the Princes, which could have been MY family if they had not disenherited her for it—my father was a boor who hated how she deceived him and cared only for his own hide and daily pint—though, of the two, I suppose I hate my mother the most. My personal history besides has been rather tragic, though I doubt you're interested and I honestly don't want to waste my time telling you. In any case, I'm fairly certain that Azkaban awaits me, or else the life of a pariah who ought to be in Azkaban, if I had survived in your time. I could have chosen to live to run away, in the perfect Slytherin fashion, but I doubt that a life in hiding would be far from peaceful. _

_Contrary to popular opinion, I want to pursue a quiet, normal life. That's all I ask. That's also another reason why I chose you, Pince, to help me. You prefer the company of stacks of books to the company of people. I prefer my cauldrons, but it amounts to the same thing. I suspect that you can understand my plight._

_I beg of you, don't tell the world about this. Let people puzzle over my missing corpse as long as they care; I'm sure it won't be long before the issue is unceremoniously dropped. If you must tell someone—and I suspect, you being a woman, you'll be unable to keep your mouth shut—tell Poppy Pomfrey. (She's likely the only person who ever gave a damn for me at this ruddy school.) No one else. Particularly not Harry Potter. _

_If I don't take the items 24 hours after you put them in the desk, then don't worry that you did something wrong. The Peragro Vicis probably did not work, in that case, and I'm probably really dead. It was rather experimental, after all._

_Thanks in advance._

_Severus T. Snape_

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_That's why they never found his body. He had left our time entirely._

Of course, while she digested the epistle, she remembered her guilt and her dreams, and felt an enormous amount of relief. _So he's not really dead. I didn't do anything wrong. Neglecting him was what he wanted. Oh my goodness._

The next thought that struck Hermione was the fact that Snape's middle name began with the letter T, of all things. _I would have wagered on an S_, she mused, but then she realized that Pomfrey had violated Snape's trust in allowing her to read the letter.

Still, her overall impression was that Snape was uncommonly kind in his letter. There were a few barbs, but not nearly so many as usually affected his speech, and not nearly so sharp as usual. After all, she supposed he was asking a favor. _So what was Pince crying about? He wasn't nearly so abrasive in the letter as in life…_

It was clear to her nagging conscience, however, that the letter revealed how he had no desire to live beyond the Battle. Leaving him to die without raising a finger probably confirmed his opinion that it was no use to even try to live.

"I trust you will have fewer dreams about Professor Snape, now," Pomfrey said with a sad smile, and Hermione understood why Pomfrey had let her read it. She managed a smile in return.

"I think so," Hermione said. Then curiosity became her dominant emotion. It was refreshing, for the first time in a week, to be able to be interested in something external. "Have you heard of this enchantment before?"

Pomfrey replied in the negative. "No indeed. It's one of the most extraordinary things I've ever heard. I've had men come back to life, but never like this. I only pray that it worked. He did deserve a second shot at life, if there ever was a man who deserved it. Now," she added, "I think it would be of some medical benefit to you to be the one to reply to Severus' letter. You're overridden with survivor's guilt, of a sort, and it would help you to end your nightmares to have some contact with him. You can tell him that, in case he balks—he's got _plenty _of experience with nightmares, and he'll understand. Besides," she muttered wistfully, "Pince dropped the task on me, and I don't have _any _time to be writing news reports for time-traveling men."

"Of course I'll do it!" Hermione exclaimed, her heart immediately less heavy.

"Need I remind you that it was his _express _wish to keep this matter confidential?" Pomfrey's tone indicated that she was suspicious of her patient's apparent lightness, which might later lead inadvertently to flippancy. "As his past caregiver—until he went _to _the past, that is—I still have much concern for his welfare. I think it would be beneficial to him to talk to _you_, just as much as it would benefit you to talk to _him. _I think I'll enclose a snippet to that affect, actually. He won't dare object if it's by my orders."

"Can't mention it to anyone," Hermione reiterated.

"Except myself and Irma."

Awkward as she thought of Madame Pince's _But Poppy! I love him!, _Hermione frowned.

Misinterpreting the gesture, Poppy added, "She may have forsaken her interest for now, but believe me, that soul's too curious for her own good. She'll be hounding you soon enough, once I let on to her about what leaving letters about can lead to."

"All right," Hermione said, resigned to the task of dealing with the unctuous librarian.

So saying, she finished the medical proceedings with Pomfrey, signed out her potions, and took her basket with her to the Headmaster's Quarters.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

(1) Dickens, _The Final Battle_, Part the First.

_. . . x . . . X . . . x . . ._


	3. Chapter 3

_Much thanks to excessivelyperky for editing!_

**Love, Letters, and a Lack of Galoshes: A Chance for Redemption in Writing**

"_Why is a raven like a writing desk?" –Lewis Carroll_

_"Neither one has the soul of man."--me_

Chapter 3

At one point in his path in life, Severus Snape came to the unfortunate conclusion that he was nearing the end of his tether. The thought was depressing but not unhappy for him, if only because he had so long striven for a goal that had wholly consumed his life. Knowing that his path was destined to end in a cul-de-sac, he was glad for the inevitability of it. He hated not knowing what to do, not being able to plan, not having any choice as to his own future. So, taking all this into account, he was glad to know that he was going to die with the closing of the war.

However, Dumbledore knew the consequences of his miserable plan to end the Dark Lord's power, and, from the first, encouraged Severus to not leave without a fight. It was, Dumbledore argued, understandable for Severus to passively let the winds take him as they might, for Severus had lived a harsh life, but the fact remained that it had been a desperately _short_ life. The headmaster was adamant that Severus should exist in the happiness that that heretofore eluded him, at least for a little while. To achieve this, Dumbledore used his favorite trick—the guilt card.

"It would be _suicide_, Severus, not to take some preventative caution," he told the snarky Potions Master some months before his own death.

This had elicited only the least polite of scoffs from Snape. "At least it would be _passive_ suicide, if that. I'm not begging the Dark Lord to turn his wand and do me in. What would you call the mission _you _have entrusted to me, headmaster? I'm sure that a century in Azkaban for your murder will vastly improve my quality of life. Or perhaps they'll find room for me in Nurmengard next to Grindelwald."

Dumbledore waved the question away with the complacency of an absent-minded professor swatting an annoying dragonfly. "That's different, Severus. I'm old, for one thing, and my death will be playing a key role in helping Harry end Voldemort. I'm more than an impediment—having me die is crucial to furthering all aspects of the plan. Your standing in the Death Eaters will be vastly improved. Passing on the Elder Wand will enable Harry to defeat Tom. Giving him a false sense of security will compel him to overdraw. And really everything else depends on _me _being out of the picture and most thoroughly _dead. _What purpose will _your_ death serve? None but your own interests._"_

"You seem to think the only reason I should live is because my death is unnecessary." The realization was made blandly, but Snape's eyes betrayed his bottled anger. "What if it is what I wish? Does that make it more acceptable?"

"Absolutely not." Dumbledore was close to glowering himself.

Snape shrugged his shoulder with a jerk. "You yourself said, at one point, that my life was a never-ending suicide mission."

"That's misconstruing my meaning, and you know it. I don't _want _you to die, Severus, and I never have!"

"But if it ever had been necessary for the furthering of your plan to forfeit my life, you would have been quite calm about it, I should think," Snape lashed scathingly, gripping the arm of the chair with one hand. "You wouldn't even tell me. You'd just let it _happen._"

"No, Severus, of course I would tell you-"

"-You're speaking out of your arse, headmaster."

This crudeness being greatly uncharacteristic of Severus, Dumbledore regarded his Potions Master in shock, waiting for the expected apology. He received none.

Sighing, Dumbledore realized that his argument was futile, and gave in, seeing that Snape expected _him _to apologize. He made the concession.

"You're right, Severus," he acknowledged, "I likely would not have told you if I saw that your death was inevitable. But does it not restore some amount of your confidence in me to see that I am truly interested in preventing your death when it is clear there is another option?"

Snape sneered. "What kind of option is that?"

Glad to have the other's attention, even if it was pessimistic, Dumbledore bent his head and withdrew a small vial from his desk drawer.

Angry as he realized what the bottle contained, Snape rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

"For the love of heaven, _please _don't tell me that you've skimped on the treatments for your hand?"

Gravely, Dumbledore nodded. "Severus, I've known for a long time that I'm almost ready to start my next great adventure. Do you think, with this in mind, that I would give up such a precious gift as tears from Fawkes for a rotting piece of flesh?"

"So you used nothing but my potions?" Snape asked in disbelief, his anger suppressed for the moment.

"Just so."

Throwing his hands up in the air with exasperation, Snape cried, "No wonder they haven't worked, then! I was counting on them to react in conjunction with additional application of the tears! I couldn't understand what had gone amiss! I thought it had something to do with exposing the brew to oxygen too early in the process; I nearly asphyxiated two weeks ago because I wanted to prevent a single breath of air from entering and start it oxidizing!"

"Nonetheless, Severus, I have saved these tears for you."

So saying, Dumbledore pushed the bottle across the desk with his good hand.

Snape glared. "I don't want them. You commence to apply them on your hand immediately, so that my cure will work _properly._"

"It's too late for me, Severus." Dumbledore nudged the bottle closer to the Potions Master.

Grudgingly, Snape took the bottle. "Well, how in the world will these help me?" he muttered savagely. "Fat lot of good it'll do if the Dark Lord gives me a good bout of _Crucio _and finishes me off with _Avada Kedavra._ Or do you imagine he'll tear me up with _Sectumsempra_, my own curse? That would be the pinnacle of irony."

Quietly, Dumbledore remarked, "I rather think he will kill you with his snake, actually. I think that is the irony that would appeal to him more. The snake eating the disloyal snake. It would be symbolic of your treachery."

"Which he doesn't know about yet," snarled Snape, gritting his teeth with ire.

"True, but one never knows. Besides, you yourself reported how he got rid of Bunnkins not too long ago."

"All the poor man _did_ was come to you pleading for mercy on behalf of himself and his family," retorted Snape, sarcasm wet all over his words.

"Not unlike another unfortunate man who came to me some years ago," Dumbledore gently reminded.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

In the end, Dumbledore won, to a degree, eliciting a promise from Snape to search for something to prevent his death in the event of the inevitable fatal strike. Snape was certain that Voldemort would not use Nagini on him, though. In order to keep his promise to Dumbledore, he needed to try something other than a simple bottle of phoenix tears to heal wounds.

He briefly considered doing something with the Draught of Living Death, but there was no guarantee that if he managed to swallow the stuff before he died (which would be quite difficult if Nagini ripped out his throat) that it would prevent him from passing while under its spell. Several other options he considered in turn, but none seemed to fit the requirement of bringing a person back to life at any time.

While doing research that would rival that of the notorious Miss Granger, Snape came across a title that caught his eye: _101 Ways to Die, The Suicidal Maniac's Handbook._

He briefly considered killing himself right then and there, hidden beneath a few towering stacks. That would mean his search for the perfect life-preserver would be over and he would never have to deal with Voldemort _or _Dumbledore again. The book, as he flipped through it, even provided for this scenario:

_If you desire to kill yourself in the library—a very popular place for scholars to end their own miserable existences—here are some methods that are used very often. _

_A. Simply drop a match. The entire library will go up in flames, with you in it. If you drop a tallow candle instead, perhaps near the curtains, it can even look like an accident. (Quite painful either way.)_

_B. Charm a book of volatile poisons to start producing the products it depicts. One that is particularly easy to spell is_ Poisons of the West and How They Taste _by E. R. Vizitar, or _Desperate: Delicious and Deathly Drinks _by Sue E. Sidel. If you're good, you could make it look like an accident._

_C. Topple a book-case over, bury yourself amidst the books, and then asphyxiate yourself. It will look like an accident. An evaporating poison we can recommend for the purpose is a mixture of. . . _

Chuckling at the morbidity of it, Snape ran his thumb along the edge and let the pages ruffle past his fingertips.

The answer came, all of a sudden, when he saw:

_Perago Vicis: The Romulus/Julius Death Contract_

_Once upon a time, there were two young men in ancient Rome named Romulus (not the twin of Remus, who founded Rome in the first place, but instead named in his honor) and Julius who were madly in love with one another. But they could not undergo any formal marriage contract normal between a man and a woman. Their families reacted with disgust at the affair, and tried to coerce them into falling into love with lovely young women. They held parties and feasts, but to no avail; the boys remained stalwartly in love. _

_Eventually, so fed up with their families and the lack of understanding they received, the lovers went to an old sage who promised to marry them and help them elope. The old sage encouraged Romulus to flee the town for a week, and for Julius to fake his own death. Then he gave Julius an older version of the Draught of Living Death, similar to that given to Aurora Rose (more commonly known as Sleeping Beauty) rather than the modern potion. Julius therefore appeared to be dead to all, and he was placed in his family tomb._

_Then Romulus came, and carried Julius away on horseback, to a little hut that he had acquired. They were very happy there for some years, until a strain of plague came through their new village. To avoid it, they concocted a potion that would poison them and then take them back fifty years when consumed. Apparently, it worked, because there were two funerals recorded for a Romulus and Julius in that village: one in A.D. 103, when they apparently both killed themselves by poison, and one in A.D. 85 (meaning they probably went back to A.D. 53 initially, and then lived for 32 years before dying again), when one died of natural means and the other killed himself. _

_A rather obscure play, called _Romeo and Juliet, _by the great playwright William Shakespeare was inspired by this tale. To widen its appeal to Elizabethan audiences, he took creative license, turning Julius into a female, and stressing a feud between the families as being the predominant problem factor instead of the issue that was truly at hand. (Actually, political and family feuds were rampant in this age, look up Dante's abortive political career or anything about the Medicis to confirm this.) He also left out the only really significant part of the story—that of the Perago Vicis potion—because he was writing for Muggles, of course _

_But anyway, if the only reason you want to die is to get away from it all, or if you've just got the hankering to travel back in time after you die, this means of death is perfect for you. _

The recipe followed, and Snape skimmed over the ingredients and equations. They seemed all in order, and easily malleable.

_I wonder…life after death…Dumbledore probably would not see this as 'qualifying', since I'd have to abandon the life and reputation I've built for myself in this world. Ha! As if that's a concern to _me! _I just shall keep quiet about this discovery._

It seemed perfect. When he died, instead of dealing with the bothersome consequences—like _Azkaban _or _martyr status_—he would be able to literally start afresh.

Fifty years back was a bit too soon for his taste; he had no desire to run into himself, or live through two wars all over again. A hundred and fifty was easy to manage, however, with a few changes in some of the exponents and calculations.

Plus, he reasoned that if it were pumped into his bloodstream, then whenever he happened to die, by however method, then he would be able to live. There would be no fumbling with vials, no chance for mistake.

Except, of course, if the potion did not work. Then, Severus knew, it would be out of his hands. While not an exceptionally religious man, he did have faith in some deity that reigned over his life, as much as he hated the idea of serving _three _masters.

_I don't expect it will work. I've screwed up the life I was given;__why in the world would I be given a chance to try again? I don't deserve such forgiveness. If I were in charge of determining fate, I shouldn't give myself another chance. _

He rather saw his death, and the consequent failure of his potion, as inevitable. After so many years of cursing his life, of living in the darkest shadow of sin, Severus did not believe that God, Zeus, or whomever or whatever gave him life would be pleased at his use of it. There was no reason to believe in a benevolent God, who was merciful, gentle, helpful, or clement, who returned good for evil, giving back pardon for hatred, preferring pity to vengeance, saving the mortal who had smitten him, kneeling on the heights of virtue. So much easier it would be for Fate to be angry with Snape—for every master the spy had ever known expressed no real praise, only displeasure—and therefore punish him, then to give him a second chance.

Besides, from a purely theological standpoint, Snape knew he ought to be in very bad standing for killing as many people as he had over the years, and even if his spy-work and protection of the students of Hogwarts made up for it all (as Dumbledore expressed fervently) he was incredibly riled at being forced to commit the murder of Dumbledore and further ruin what chance of redemption he might have had. Severus would not admit to himself that mercy might be available to him—after all, it was _Dumbledore _who insisted that he had a chance, _Dumbledore _who was asking to put an ever-greater sin on his plate, and _Dumbledore _who had never before showed concern over giving Severus the dirty work in favor of someone else. Dumbledore called it 'getting the job done right', but Severus interpreted it as 'you're a scumbag, just get on your knees and pay for it!'. It often felt like being at the mercy of the Marauders, who hated him for merely existing—nay, it was worse; at least their antagonism was outright, and not subtly expressed.

So, while he acceded to Dumbledore's request, he was also pleased, in a fatalistic kind of way, that he was not really trying to interfere with what _ought _to happen to him. Once he died, it was up to the entity in charge of life to either give it back to him, or not. It was _not _up to Dumbledore to figure out what the deities above wished.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The third-to-last paragraph is taken from _Les Miserables _by Victor Hugo (BOOK FOURTH.—JAVERT DERAILED, CHAPTER I—JAVERT) and adapted to suit my purposes, because I think Javert and Snape are in pretty similar situations at this point.


	4. Chapter 4

_DISCLAIMER: I am not Just Kidding when I say that I am not J.K. (R.)_

_Thanks very much to **excessivelyperky** for beta-ing! Fantastic job! _

**Love, Letters, and a Lack of Galoshes: A Chance for Redemption in Writing**

"_Why is a raven like a writing desk?" –Lewis Carroll_

_"In the same way that Readin', 'Ritin', and 'Rithmetic' arrrrre."—Living history actor in Prescott AZ._

Chapter 4

After Severus finally closed his eyes to the world of his birth, he waited some time—how long he could not estimate—until he heard something like the call of a bird.

Opening his eyes, he found himself in the protective shelter of a field of barley; the golden stalks waved in the wind, tickled his limp body, and apparently hid him from the view of anyone who might be nearby. He could see the sky from where he lay, and it was mostly clear, with the occasional shredded-coconut cloud. Certainly, he could tell that wherever he was, it was not the Shrieking Shack, Hogwarts, or Spinner's End. He could not help but be relieved at this.

His clothes were tight, scratchy, and suffocating with heat, but none of these was unusual. It occurred to him that he was thankful to be dressed in his ordinary manner; at least he was not in some primitive garb or worse, naked. Somehow, he always supposed that since Adam and Eve were originally bare in the Garden of Eden, when they were immune to evil, everybody in heaven would be similarly unclothed. _At least, if this is heaven, I get to retain my modesty._

He felt that his muscles might ossify if he remained still much longer, and moved a tender hand from the warm earth beneath him. First, he brushed back his hair; second, he drew a few wispy stalks of barley away from his face; and third, he touched his neck.

He had no idea what to expect after Nagini's attack, and the hideous gash that ran from under his jaw to nearly his breastbone did not disappoint. However, what he did _not _expect was the feeling that the wound was closed, knitted together, and indeed already healed. Neither was the collar of his shirt soaked with blood. The scar tissue was all that remained of the fatal attack.

"Can I speak?" he asked suddenly, being rhetorical of course. The question was unnecessary, but the words themselves were. It relieved him immensely to hear his silken voice unbroken by his injury, albeit a bit dry with thirst.

Further questions surfaced to his mind, and to answer them he made an effort to rise. Surprised, he noted that the ache in his back, to which he awoke every morning previously (existent since the day of the stupid Golden Trio's successful disarmament of him in the Shrieking Shack) was gone. He realized, as he sat up, that he felt better than he had in weeks. If it were not for feeling very hungry and thirsty, and if the palms of his hands had not picked up any of the dirt beneath them, he would have presumed he was in heaven.

As it was, it occurred to him that his potion might—just possibly—have _worked_.

It took only the least amount of effort, once he was sitting up, to stand. He did this cautiously, seeing that he had no wish to be seen at present. Years of reconnaissance work had taught him that forewarned was forearmed in unfamiliar places. Absently, he brushed off his trousers, deciding that the place pleasantly reminded him of the painting of _Reaper _by Van Gogh.

An apple tree startled him, as it was the only thing in the field taller than Severus himself. Lured by the promise of nourishment, he warily wandered towards it.

_It could still be hell, you old codger_, he warned himself. _The tree could bear fruit that will not quench my hunger and thirst, but instead increase them endlessly. Or the fruit might be inaccessible to me—I might try and try to reach an apple and it bounces away, luring me into the boughs of the tree, which, in memory of the Whomping Willow, have wills of their own and strangle me. Or the tree might be a mirage and not even exist, thereby ensuring that my eternal purgatory is to forever chase it._

All three of these notions were quickly dispelled as he plucked an apple off the branch of the very-real tree, which knocked a few more at his feet as the branch snapped to position. He partook of them, and felt satisfied. They tasted like ordinary apples, no more and no less.

_Perhaps I am to play the role of the serpent to Adam and Eve? _he wondered mercilessly, not willing to confront the idea that Fate had granted him a second chance. _Will I turn to a snake, as a fittingly symbolic chastisement for my Slytherin ways, twine myself in the tree and, unbid, speak the words of Satan to the next naked woman who ambles along near?_

He waited for perhaps an hour, barely daring to hope he was wrong. Of course, as he sat beneath the tree, examining apples and musing on Newton, his mind produced innumerable other scenarios concerning how this place could contain punishment for his sins. Some of his ideas ranged on fantastic; he even deigned to consider the role of harmless black ants as potential instruments of torment, but they maintained their distance and their trail to the anthill never deviated.

Apathetic, but still interested in testing their steadfastness, Severus bit into an apple and left it near them. They responded like normal ants—when they sensed the natural sugars of the apple calling, a number climbed on it to investigate, paying no attention to the human in their midst.

_Maybe I don't even exist; maybe I'm a shade_, he worried, _Or worse—a poltergeist!_

At this terrifying thought, he rose to his knees and put his finger smack in the middle of their trail, squishing two hapless soldiers. Irreverently, never shirking their duties, the remainder of the ants simply went around his appendage.

He withdrew before they had to make any major detours on his behalf. _I do exist, apparently, in a human form. _

With a sigh he lowered his head, letting his hair drape across his face like an opera-house curtain, but he was inspired to see where their trail led.

_If I'm truly in purgatory_, he thought savagely, _it'll be Lily's corpse that they're taking, piecemeal, back to their miniature subterranean dungeons. _

The trail's end was not far, and he discovered the source of the insects' interest to be quite ordinary: the body of a dead crow.

Silent, Severus stood and mourned the bird, which he respected for its cunning and ambition, even if it had the faults of avarice and of thievery.

_It's almost symbolic_, he thought, the first true optimism entering his mind, _like Fate is trying to tell me that my worst side is dead, that I've come to the end of an era, that I'm free to finally be an honest man. _

The idea that he was not to be a victim of the Gods' wrath finally began to sink into his mind. He unbent his head with an unspoken prayer of thanksgiving on his lips, straightening his shoulders and standing with prideful decorum. _I'm fairly intact, given all that's happened to me._

It was just his luck that the moment his self-confidence peaked, he saw the most bittersweet reminder of his past life—Hogwarts Castle, nestled in the immense girth of the Forbidden Forest.

At first, he cursed. _Can I never get away from the place? _he whinged. _Gods! Am I to be condemned to join some league headed by one crazy wizard against another, all over again? Beastly fate! Such would be a purgatory in itself!_

It was only after he sank to the ground in desperation that he realized that he was actually at the undeveloped location of the future Shrieking Shack.

_Oh. I never directed the spell to transport me anywhere. I suppose it automatically brought me to the scene of my death._

The idea was a comforting explanation, and he gave the castle a scornful look.

_I'll only go there if necessary, _he decided, _Now, I need to get to Diagon Alley. Is it too much to hope that my wand survived the trip?_

It had; it was stuck in his left sleeve like always, and he wondered why he hadn't thought to touch it yet. In a whisper, he cast a brief Patronus, and he found his doe appeared the same as in his previous life.

Knowing it was absurd to find so much comfort in a stupid animal, he felt the cool surface of her skin under his fingertips and began to feel like he really was _alive_ and not in some pre-nightmarish dream.

Standing again, he cast his gaze in the direction of Hogwarts, searching for any evidence of Hogsmeade. He saw none, but he found what appeared to be a small footpath leading out of the barley field, and followed it.

He quickly settled into a comfortable pace, and strolled for about five solitary minutes before he found that the path led into a patch of forest. Undaunted—for since when was he like Ichabod Crane, scared of every noise in a dark place?—he entered, feeling the warmth leave his sun-heated skin as he stepped into the arbor.

His confidence was misplaced. The trees became thicker as he walked, and the atmosphere became more dank and dark. Snape eventually realized that he had lost the path.

The bitterest of laughs rose from his throat. He had thought himself another Dante—and so soon after his reincarnation, he was unfathomably lost in a dark wood!

_Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita.  
mi ritrovai per una sela oscura,  
che la diritta via era smarrita._

This he recited with a little tune to the words—for he could not remember the Italian otherwise—and then he sighed.

_At one point midway on our path in life,  
I came around and found myself now searching  
Through a dark wood, the right way blurred and lost._

He seated himself on a boulder, intending not to move. Instead, he cast his Patronus and let her dance around, running to and fro in a blissfully agile attempt to find the path.

_If only I had Sirius Black on a leash_, he mused, _at least he could sniff out the trail._

He decided to have his Patronus lead once he found the path again, because she would be better able to keep to it as a woodland animal.

_I wonder if I ought to call her Virgila after this, _he considered, _but only, of course, if she succeeds at leading me out of this place. _

There was little doubt in his mind that she would, since she had been of invaluable use to him in numerous other situations. Her best work had been finding Harry Potter and leading him to the Sword of Gryffindor earlier that year.

Further considering the story of Dante and his own life, he wondered whether or not fate had made Lily's Patronus a doe from her symbolic future of leading Severus out of the figurative Dark Wood of the Death Eaters's Allegiance, but he supposed that would be too far a stretch. _James Potter was a stag, and she was his soul-mate_, he determined, grim, _Of course she would be a doe. And, like the sentimental wretch that I am, I copied her. _

He snorted at his next thought. _Perhaps that means that Potter and _I _had romantic capability? _

It was at this point that he heard a vociferous screech.

"Eaaay, 'oo goes there?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning to determine the source of the voice.

"Up 'ere, yo' arse!"

A cheeky youth grinned at him from a nearby tree. Taking refuge in the fact that the child was _probably _just eight or nine and just staking his territory, Snape did no more than scowl at the boy.

"Eaaay naow, don' be a bloomin' ninny. Wotcher doin', goin' down thuh 'Ogwarts path? Yoo gonna go see yer Billy?"

Snape took a deep breath and decided to take the boy somewhat into his confidence. "Actually," he primly pronounced, "I was headed towards Hogsmeade."

"Eauwh. Ohl roiy'. Kem on, then, thads this'a way."

The boy skipped on ahead, and motioned for Snape to 'kem on, nauwh', and the Potions Master obliged.

"Serry fer callin' ye'an arse, guv'nor, I don' mean nuthin by it," the child began to prattle. "But, seein' as you was takin a lie-down in that 'ere field, I gotter do me job. I gotter knows 'oo takes a penn'orth through iyt. 'Tds me uncle's field, though lor' knows 'ee ain't born an' raised a farmer."

Snape was inclined to reply something along the lines of _I won't be plagued by guttersnipes, so leave off your incomprehensible rambling! _Instead, however, he decided the most reasonable tactic would be to ignore the boy.

Moments later, they were back in the field, and Snape saw another path he had missed leading in the opposite direction. With a nod of thanks to the boy, he headed towards it.

"Lor' luv a duck, ain't 'ee a quiet 'un? Here now, guv'nor," the urchin said as Snape remained unresponsive, "Y'ain't got such thing as er teapot lid to spare, would'er?"

"If you mean to beg, shouldn't you find a better place to go about it than an old field?" Snape scathingly remarked, not bothering to look at the child.

"Oi, guv, I done my time in London, 's good as any man, guv'nor," the presumptuous child said, wearing a smile too wise for his age. "Me mum got real up-set like, though, when I touch'd fer a few Kilkenny. Thads why I'm 'ere, to tell ye the truth." The boy lost his brimming pride and hid it under a mound of natural chestnut curls. "Me mum don' want'er deal with the likes o' _me _no more," he added, rather under his breath.

Taking pity on the boy, who vaguely reminded Severus of himself as a child, he gingerly patted the child's shoulder.

"If you could spare an hour or so, I could perhaps . . . dredge up something," Snape suggested, glad for any company willingly lent in the strange new world he had entered. "Where do you live, boy?"

"Down in 'Ogsmeade, and a right dump it is too! Though," the resentment in the boy's voice softened, "I'd say fer it, at least ye get the students o' 'Ogwarts ter come down of a Saturday mornin' fer a bit. They're right fun."

For the sake of conversation, Severus asked, "When are you getting your wand, boy?"

"Me name's Bill, if ye don' mind, guvn'or" the boy insisted, smiling radiantly. "An' I don' get me wand till me Uncle say sao. Like as not, when I'll ask agin, I'll ged a sure wollop."

"Does your uncle treat you well?" asked Snape, though only marginally concerned about Bill's welfare.

"Oi, that he does, sir, 'cept when there's sump'n I forgot. Eeay, now," he changed the subject, "Where'ye from? Yoo git a voice that's real queer-like."

Shrugging off-handedly, Snape shook his head. "Not from around here; that's all _you _need to know. Now," he proposed, "Do you want to come to Diagon Alley with me?"

The boy's eyes widened.

"Would _I evur!_"

"Do you have anybody to tell if you leave?" Snape suspected the answer would be no.

"Nawh," the boy confirmed, "Are we gonna Dis_ap_parate?" he asked, incredulous at his good fortune.

"Indeed," Snape replied, taking the boy's arm gently.

_Why am I doing this_? he asked of himself, but he just shook his head and Disapparated.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

As soon as they arrived in Diagon Alley, which was, as a main thoroughfare, not much different than in Severus' time, Snape started to ask his companion various questions as they headed towards Knockturn Alley.

"Tell me, what year is this?"

The boy seemed to take the question as a challenge to his intelligence, and he gaily replied in Cockney rhyming slang, "A thing for th'eight."

"And the date?"

"Suckin'de 'ay."

_May 2, 1848_, Snape ascertained, feeling lighter of heart as he heard the words. _Then I really did succeed._

He did not have the time to ruminate on this realization, because the boy peppered him with questions, as thoroughly as if he planned to devour the sour wizard.

"Whads yer name?"

"Dawkins."

"Aowh. Not related perchancy ter Ber' Dawkins, him as teaches skewl at Bruckle Abbey?"

"Not at all."

"Good! 'Cuz I herd them things 'bout ol' Dawkins. Real tiger, 'e was."

Not interested in hearing about teachers and their bad reputations, after having had one for so long, Snape just shook his head in disappointment at youth. _They don't get much better the farther back you go._

Knockturn Alley was a true surprise to Severus, who found that the place was much cleaner and more open than it was in his old world. That was saying a lot, considering that he was journeying through urban Victorian England!

It was a simple manner to find Borgin and Burke's, which was actually a respectable-looking pawnshop in these days, and an even simpler matter to find the writing-desk in question.

However, it was empty.

_Of course it would be_, Snape reasoned, _Pince isn't getting my letter for a week. _

He did have enough money on him to buy the desk, though it wasn't cheap. At least the old near-sighted proprietor couldn't tell that the faces of his Galleons were from the late 1900s. With the change, he took the boy to buy a bag of sweets from a darling little shop nearby.

The future was strangely uncertain for him, but, as he watched the commonplace hustle and bustle around the Alley, he could not help but feel that, somehow, he would manage.

_. . . x . . . X . . . x . . ._

Sometime in the future, Hermione Granger wrote the following note and put it in the writing desk.

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_First, I beg pardon that Madam Pince is not the one replying to your letter. She adamantly refused to do it and passed the task on to Madam Pomfrey who, for reasons I'll further explain, passed the task on to me. She wished for me to convey that this letter was a mandate on her part, a sort or prescription on her part, because she has responsibility for my psychological and physical health._

_But I very much want to get to my main point, and I'm sure you don't especially want to suffer through hearing about my problems. Mostly, I wish to ask for whatever pity and forgiveness you can possibly spare for me, the foolish girl who didn't so much as raise a finger when you lay there dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. I know now that it would have been an interference with your ultimate plan to get away—I have read your previous letter and know of the Perago Vicis—but that does not remedy the atrocity of my inactivity._

_ I ought to have done something. I don't want to go into how many different things I have considered in retrospect; it makes me bitter to think of them. A week after the battle—in which We Won, by the way!—I'm still berating myself for my unpardonable sin of passivity. _

_Could you ever please forgive me? I don't want to sound like I'm whinging, but it would make me feel ever so much better._

_In any case, I don't want to offend your eyes with my guilt, not after everything you've done for us; you don't deserve it. Madam Pomfrey says that you, of all people, deserve a second chance. Knowing more about you, I can't say I disagree._

_ I don't know how much of the Battle you want to hear about, so basically here's a summary. As we left you in the Shack, Voldemort announced, in his most intimidating_ Sonorous_, that Harry ought to go and surrender in one hour, or face a siege. Taking your memories, Harry went and viewed them immediately, and then realized what you had long realized—that he had been raised to die, since that was the only way to defeat Voldemort. So, with unparalleled Gryffindor courage, he confronted Voldemort. They dueled, and Harry lost consciousness, and Voldemort assumed him to be dead because Narcissa Malfoy examined him and lied to Voldemort, thereby saving Harry's life, which I found quite extraordinary. _

_After that, Voldemort brought Harry's 'corpse' to us, and we all thought we were lost. It was horrible to see Hagrid in tears like he was, but we all were crying. _

_Then, suddenly, Harry leaped up and showed us a miracle—he lived! Apparently, dueling with Voldemort resulted in only the death of the piece of Voldemort's soul that was IN HARRY. Harry himself was intact._

_They fought, and we fought with him, and the Battle was incredible. You'll be aggrieved to hear that Neville (Longbottom) actually made his house proud, slicing off the head of that disgusting creature, Nagini. I think he would have preferred to be the one to kill Bellatrix Lestrange, but Molly Weasley took care of that. _

_We had some casualties on our side, numbering in total near fifty, but the ones I know of specifically are Fred Weasley,_ _Remus Lupin_, _Tonks Lupin, Argus Filch (I don't know what on earth possessed him to come out with his flammable cleaning products and start squirting folks in the eyes, but it earned him a grave), Colin Creevy, Grody Boot, Busby Heron, and Laura Fielding. I don't presume I know better than to give you the total of who went to Azkaban and who died from Voldemort's side, because, for all I know, they were your friends. The Malfoys went unscathed, and actually I think Draco turned in the midst of Battle. The Lestranges are dead, fighting fanatically to the end. Voldemort is obviously dead, for good this time. Vincent Crabbe is dead, too. I don't know the names of the others. _

_In total, the sides were fairly even, since of course Voldemort had the aid of Imperiused wizards and Acromantulas along with you Death Eaters, but we had a lot of magical creatures from the Forbidden Forest ourselves. Centaurs, house-elves, Thestrals, Hagrid's half-brother Grawp, Buckbeak, etc. were all on our side. _

_In the end, Harry defeated Voldemort, the remainder of the Death Eaters were captured, and now we're trying to put the castle—and our lives—back together. The reconstruction is fairly extensive, and Harry and Ron spend a lot of time here at Hogwarts working. I would too, if I weren't confined to a sedentary recovery period. (I had a bad bout with Bellatrix Lestrange in Malfoy Manor not long ago. Maybe you heard about it? I'm so glad she's dead.) _

_Oh, and your name has been cleared entirely, at least in our eyes and the eyes of Hogwarts. I know there's a temporary hold on clearing it officially with the Ministry, because Shacklebolt wants to wait until there's more stable political climate (he says he wants to hold it until people are done grieving, which is rubbish in my opinion), but Harry's devoted himself to the task and intends to do it as soon as possible. Though, I hate to say, I don't know if it will really happen, if Kingsley's got more than the reason he's telling us behind his reluctance._

_We think you the noblest of men. Harry wishes that he had a chance to really know you (I will NOT tell him where you are, never fear! Your secret is between myself, Madam Pince, and Madam Pomfrey, solely!), and I personally feel the same way. I don't know that you would have been that much nicer to us or anything—but at least now you don't have to suffer through the kind of life you've lived for so long._

_As you might infer, I found the writing desk, and I found your money. Your rooms were not ransacked. Here are your galleons, as requested._

_Please, please, please forgive my behavior in your last moments. I can't express it any more plainly, really I can't. I hate myself intensely. _

_Your humiliated former student,_

_Hermione Jean Granger_

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .


End file.
